MR. SPONGE'S SPORTING TOUR. 257 



pen through the words " that means you and I." " Now get on," 

 said he, appealing to Jack, adding, " we've a deal to do vet." 



" Say," said Jack, " ' after partaking of the well-known profuse 

 and splendid hospitality of Hanby House, they proceeded at once 

 to Hollyburn Hanger, where a tine seasoned fox' — though some 

 said he was a bag one — " 



" Did they ? " exclaimed Sponge, adding, " well, I thought he 

 went away rather queerly." 



" Oh, it was only old Bung the brewer, who runs down every run 

 he doesn't ride." 



"Well, never mind," replied Sponge, "we'll make the best of 

 it, whatever it was ; " writing away as he spoke, and repeating the 

 words " bag one " as he penned them. 



" ' Broke away,' " continued Jack — 



" ' In view of the whole field,' " added Sponge. 



" Just so," assented Jack. 



" ' Every hound scoring to cry, and making the' — the — the — 

 what d'ye call the thing ? " asked Jack. 



" Country," suggested Sponge. 



" No," replied Jack, with a shake of the head. 



" Hill and dale ? " tried Sponge again. 



" Welkin ! " exclaimed Jack, hitting it off himself — " ' makin' 

 the welkin ring with their melody ! ' makin' the welkin ring with 

 their melody," repeated he, with exultation. 



" Capital ! " observed Sponge, as he wrote it. 



" Equal to Littlelegs," * said Jack, squinting his eyes inside out. 



" We'll make a grand thing of it," observed Sponge. 



" So we will," replied Jack, adding, " if we had but a book 

 of po'try we'd weave in some lines here. You haven't a book 

 o' no sort with you that we could prig a little po'try from ? " 

 asked he. 



" No," replied Sponge, thoughtfully. " I'm afraid not ; indeed, 

 I'm sure not. I've got nothin' but ' Mogg's Cab Fares.' " 



" Ah, that won't do," observed Jack, with a shake of the head. 

 " But stay," said he, " there are some books over yonder," pointing 

 to the top of an Indian cabinet, and squinting in a totally different 

 direction. " Let's see what they are," added he, rising, and stumping 

 away to where they stood. " I Promessi Sposi," read he off the back 

 of one : " What can that mean ! Ah, it's Latin," said he, opening 

 the volume. " Contes a ma Fille," read he off the back of another. 

 " That sounds like racin'," observed he, opening the volume ; " it's 

 Latin too," saidhe, returningit. " However,never mind, we'll ' sugar 

 Puffs milk,' as Mr. Bragg would say, without po'try." So saying, 

 Mr. Spraggon stumped back to his easy chair. " Well, now," said 



* The Poetical Recorder of the Doings of the Dublin Garrison clogs, in 

 Bell's Life. 



8 



